Like Bile
by BabyCharmander
Summary: It comes back sometimes, with the clink of a glass, the utterance of a phrase, the scent of a drink.


Hiya folks! A new oneshot this time. This is just a quick thing I wrote in a day, and I finally got around to painting the cover so I can post it. (_Neither Can You_'s final chapter is currently being edited and will be up, if not in the next few days, then early September.)

Thanks to Jaywings and Tomatosoupful for beta-reading for me.

* * *

Sometimes, it comes back.

You never know when it's going to happen, or what's going to set it off.

The first time, it's something minor. One minute you're enjoying a meal with your family, eating and talking and laughing and feeling a joy that you never thought you would feel again, and the next minute you hear the _clink _of glass as two family members jokingly partake in a toast.

Suddenly you are overwhelmed with a sense of panic, of wrongness, and your throat burns, and your stomach hurts, it _hurts_. You falter and lean forward as your hand grasps at your stomach, but nothing is there, even though you feel all the pain as though it was happening for the first time.

But it's not. You're still there at the dinner table, and everyone is still talking and joking, completely unaware of the agony you suddenly find yourself in. And they should be. They've done nothing wrong, they don't know the specifics of what happened to you, and you don't want the atmosphere dragged down by some imaginary thing, some old memory from a century ago.

So you straighten your back and throw a playful jab at another family member, grinning against the phantom pain that seems content to stay for the time being.

It follows you into the night, and your dreams are unpleasant.

The next morning you feel no better, but there's nothing to be said. It's a memory, a pain from long ago, so there's nothing to be done for it.

Eventually it leaves, and you shrug your shoulders, expecting that to be the last of it.

It is not.

* * *

The next time it happens, the circumstances are not quite as innocent.

You've merely left the house to do a bit of shopping, to grab a few things your wife needs for dinner, when someone approaches you. It's something you're still getting used to, now that you've become a celebrity of sorts. You've never been comfortable talking to these people, but it's rarely more than an annoyance, and you prepare to brush this person off just as you have the others.

And then she asks you the question.

It's not a question of your music, or of your family, or of your afterlife.

It's a question of veracity. Challenging your "claims," claims of something you've only known for a few months now.

_Are you still claiming that—?_

But you're not claiming—you're not arguing—you're just telling the truth, that it happened, it _did_, and you can feel it, the burning sensation rising up your throat like vomit, the agony wrenching through your stomach, the weakness in your feet and legs, and _it's true, I'm not a liar, why would you think that?_

But she only persists, prodding further, insisting that the public does not believe you, that you're making it up for attention, for sympathy, for fame—

You're not a liar. You are _not _a liar. About some things, maybe, but not this. Not this.

Your head is spinning and your throat is burning and you just want _out_, so you run. She gives chase, but she ultimately does not follow you home, for she encounters your family's guardian just before you turn onto the street.

When your wife questions what you're doing back so early, you catch your breath and suggest with a smile that a simpler dinner may be in order for tonight.

It's not like you could eat now, anyway.

* * *

As you settle into bed for another uneasy night, still feeling the vague churn of your stomach, the strangeness of it hits you.

It's not like you hadn't thought of your death before—there was always that memory of the argument, the toast, the terrible pain, the vision of the train blurring as your face dropped down toward the pavement. It came back every so often, usually in the form of nightmares, and usually with a sadness over the unfairness of it all, how you'd been unfortunate enough to die _just _as you were going home.

But that was all it had been at the time: rotten luck. Something to shrug your shoulders at, something there had been little to prevent.

Yet after knowing the truth of what happened—how it hadn't been luck, it hadn't been chance, it had been deliberate, it had been—

It's so much worse.

So much worse, now, especially since you can look back on what happened and _see _the signs, the signs that had been there all along. You remembered that he'd bought rat poison. You remembered how angry and desperate he had been, how he'd wanted _your songs_, and how he had so suddenly calmed down so quickly, how he took so long to pour the drinks, and—

How had you missed it? How could you not have seen it, that something was _wrong_? How had you not heard the alarm bells, seen the red flags, how had you not realized _any _of it?

Your hands press into your face, fingertips digging into your hair, as you fight against the burning feeling in your throat, against the acrid bile and the metallic tang of blood in your mouth.

You should have known. You should have seen it. You should have realized.

But you didn't.

That night, your stomach never settles.

* * *

It never ends.

Small things that had never bothered you before are now bringing it back, suddenly and without warning. You find yourself stepping away from conversations or quickly changing topics more often than you used to. In the back of your mind you know it's foolish, that this was so long ago, that it really shouldn't be bothering you as much as it is, and yet it does. All you can do is skirt around it as best as you're able, careful to never let your smile falter, to keep your hands from clutching your stomach, to swallow down the burning before it makes you retch.

It doesn't help that your mind keeps going back to what the woman had asked you, what she'd said, what she'd accused you of. Nor does it help when you notice the articles.

Glimpsing a cover on a magazine stand, you think about about how funny it is that it looks like a drawing of you, and then do a double-take.

It _is _you. It's an article about you, and as you turn your head, you see more of them, more tabloids that claim to know the _true _story.

There's so many of them, you can't possibly keep track. They've apparently been around for some time, ever since the news surfaced, but you'd never paid attention until now. Frantically you grab one of them and flip through it, and it's all lies—accusations of lying, of thievery, of deceit—and you can feel your throat burn yet again.

Yes, you _have _lied and stolen and deceived, but not for this. Never for anything like this. Your story is _true_—it _did _happen, and you'd _told _them as much. For some reason that bothers you more than anything else—that they would accuse you of lying over the truth that's been haunting you since you made the terrible discovery.

You _wish _you were lying. Then maybe you wouldn't have these terrible memories, this guilt, this pain, these internal beatings of _you should have known better._

You force yourself to put the magazine back, but every time you come back to the market, the tabloids taunt you—often literally, with their accusations and outrageous claims. The things they accuse you of are often absurd, but you can't help but flip through them every time you pass by. You regret it every time, always walking away with the pain twisting in your stomach, the bile burning in your throat.

The reporters themselves never stop, either, and you have to be on your toes every time you step outside, lest they ambush you again. You can outrun them, and when you can't, your family usually shows up to help, but it never stops their questions from cutting into you, setting you off all over again.

At times it feels like the entire Land of the Dead is judging you. If you aren't being accused of lying, you're asked how you never realized your best friend was a traitorous murderer in the first place. It's one thing you have no answer to.

* * *

You try to content yourself in spending time with your family, and oftentimes it's just the distraction you need. But it's only a distraction, and the illusion of peace is shattered when something sets you off yet again.

Why does it bother you so much? It happened nearly a century ago, so why is the pain resurfacing _now_? It's yet another question you have no answer to, and you're beginning to wonder if the pain and anxiety will never leave.

Maybe this is just your life now. Maybe this is the punishment you get for being a liar and a thief for all these years, for leaving home in the first place, for never realizing that something was _wrong _with your friend.

But then something changes.

* * *

An idea worms its way into your head—that maybe you should _say something_. Your initial thought is to shut the idea down—after all, _saying something _results in your words getting twisted against you. It results in people deliberately misconstruing what you say in order to mock you. It results in people getting _angry_. So you swallow it down, along with the bile and blood and bitter, poisoned tequila.

Yet every time the pain comes back, every time the panic jolts through your chest, some small part of you is wanting to _please say something, please tell them_, _they won't know until you say something_. But you can't, you know you can't—nothing good will come of it.

But it grows more insistent, the need to _speak_, to tell _someone_—it grows so desperate that it feels like you are drowning.

The phrase "heaven and earth" is uttered at the dinner table, and you freeze up again as the familiar pain settles in. Maybe you… _should _say something. You _will._

You open your mouth, and the bile chokes you before you can speak. Instead you clear your throat, and ask for someone to pass the _tamales_.

It feels like just another thing to add on to the plethora of problems plaguing you now, and you can't get over the _absurdity _of it all. You're plagued by the memory of something that happened a hundred years ago, that should have easily been prevented, that people you don't like are accusing you of lying about, that you can't even talk to your own family about.

What is _wrong _with you?

Still the voice inside nags you to _please, please say something, you can't take much more of this, you need to talk to someone. _

_It will ruin everything, _you argue. _What happened is past. It's all over, and they don't want to hear any of this. They just want to be happy, and you would be selfish to drag them down._

_But are they not family? Don't they want _you _to be happy, too?_

It's a question you're afraid to answer. But it does make you think.

* * *

Maybe it _would _be better to try.

Anything is better than endlessly choking on your own bile, than beating yourself up with guilt, than drowning.

It takes several tries, as each time you ultimately choke down your words at the last minute. _There's not enough time, they're too busy, this isn't the right moment. _But one day your wife is, for whatever reason, alone with you in the house, and you realize this may be the last chance in a while you will get to tell just _one person._

You tell her you have something to say, and she is immediately attentive, concerned, worried. You both sit in the living room, and again the bile threatens to choke you.

Her hands take yours, and you realize you are shaking. But she is patient.

The words tumble out, at first, as you begin to talk about your tour. You ramble too long about the different things you saw, the places you went, delaying the inevitable. As you get closer to what happened, you find yourself turning away from her, and the words are coming haltingly.

Finally you talk about the fight, and the poison, and the toast, and all the signs you stupidly missed. You admit that the feeling keeps coming back, set off by the smallest things, and suddenly you find yourself apologizing, over and over, for bothering her with this_, _knowing that it's ridiculous, that you have no reason to be so worked up over something so stupid that was your fault in the first place.

To your surprise, she squeezes your hand, and speaks in a voice choked with sorrow and horror. She tells you, with no small amount of anger, that you are not at fault for not realizing your friend would do something so vile. And she tells you, with words both tender and firm, that you are not ridiculous for being upset over this.

_You were murdered._

The words hit you like your bones hit the floor of the _cenote _months ago. Before you realize what's happening, something unwinds within you, and you find yourself weeping against her shoulder as she holds you.

* * *

It still comes back, every so often.

It's hard, but you're trying to be better about it. The magazines you're able to avoid—you give the stalls that sell them a wide berth, turning your head away so you don't even look in their direction. The temptation to discover just what they're lying about this time is strong, but you manage to resist it.

More difficult to avoid is the paparazzi, which still hound you from time to time. When you can't escape, you refuse to answer their questions, no matter how much they cut into you, no matter how much they cause the pain to resurface and the bile to rise.

It still hurts.

But no longer do you feel like you are drowning.

You talk to her, and she listens, and for now, that is enough.


End file.
